


Cassette Tapes

by cigerettes_on_the_roof



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Detective Dean, Fluff, M/M, Porn, They are so in love, pediatrician cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 21:31:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11299239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cigerettes_on_the_roof/pseuds/cigerettes_on_the_roof
Summary: Dean chuckles and presses himself against Castiel so they’re flushed from chest to hip. “Please tell me you’re listening to Zeppelin and not one my old cases again.”As if cued, the Walkman clicks off, signaling the end of side A. Castiel pulls the other ear bud out, lets it drop, and turns to face Dean. “It’s Zeppelin.”Dean meets his eyes, and Castiel can see the exhaustion that hides behind the small sparkle of mischief. “Always been a terrible liar, Cas,” he says.





	Cassette Tapes

**Author's Note:**

> Not my first rodeo, but it is my first time on this horse. I swore I would never write a Destiel fan fic, and now look at me. Five hours of sleep shared between six days and sipping cold coffee from a stained mug. This is all Dean’s fault, if he hadn’t of gone and made Castiel a mixed tape, I wouldn’t be in this mess. God dammit.
> 
> This is not betaed. I’m not even sure if that’s the right word to use. I’m in the market for one, someone to read the smut and tell me if hands and cocks are in the right place. Am I allowed to say that on an author’s note? 
> 
> I want to point out that in this fic, I spell Cass, Cas. Grammatically, Castiel’s nickname is correctly spelled CASS, but for the purpose of not gaining enemies, I’ve used the more popular spelling, CAS. 
> 
> I also don’t own the boys. They own me.

_“The voice of beauty speaks softly; it creeps only into the most fully awakened souls.”_

_-Friedrich Nietzsche_

_Xx_

_“Vic’s name is Matthew, no middle name, Wallace. He was sixteen years old.”_

Castiel lips pull up in a slight smile at the sound of Dean’s voice. His typical gruff overtaken by hoarseness from a long day on the water. Castiel’s heart pounds out a staccato rhythm that usually accompanies any thought of Dean Winchester. He adjusts the Walkman on his belt, twisting it around to his backside, and dips his hands into the warm soapy dishwater in front of him.

 

_“He was found forty-five miles off the coast of the Chesapeake. His body was dismembered into- shit where is that report? I had it-here, dismembered into six pieces total. Christ. Location points are the head, arms, hands, knees, feet, and well, poor bastard, penis.”_

 

Swirling a well-used sponge in a liquor tumbler, Castiel remembers the case that brought he and Dean together. It was high profile, the kid was the son of a celebrity gone missing after a Memorial Day party on the water. The boy went out onto the water by himself, and simply never returned. Many thought he had fallen overboard or got caught in a rip current, but it became apparent that foul play was involved after they found his body.

 

_“Vic was stuffed inside a crab trap, for an indeterminate amount of time. Carlos Diego Rodriquez Plata, age-get fucking this, seventy-four years old, found our Vic, it was his trap. He found the body after he hoisted the motherfucker onto his fishing boat at four fucking A.M. Seventy-four. As of now, he isn’t the main suspect, but it’s still early.”_

He rinses the plate Dean used this morning for his eggs and places it on the drying rack to his right. Water splashed up his arm, his rolled shirtsleeves absorbing some of the moisture, and Castiel shifts slightly on his feet. There was pressure on his lower back, a tight pull of his muscles that ached from the fatigue of his post forty-eight-hour shift. He was getting too old to be doing back-to-back surgeries. In his ears, he hears the hiss of the old tape, mechanically pulling itself through the gears of his tape player. It clanks and clicks, and Dean’s breath is blossoming up through the ear buds. He’s probably trying to find another report or taking a sip of cold coffee. Dean clears his throat, as Castiel is scraping the end of a spatula against the garbage disposal.

 

_“Body, or what’s left of it, was photographed at the scene. See evidence file Mary, delta, 87, Zebra, and evidence markers 12 through 33. Chief issued evidence locker 12 to the case, and six files were copied and distributed to PO’s and Campbell County Hospital. I, Dean Winchester, Homicide Investigations Detective, am lead on case number: Mary, Delta, 87, Zebra, 30846. The reference number is 211 dash 801 dash 599.”_

In front of Castiel, through the single pane window, the sun is beginning to set. Fingers of vibrant orange and red sunlight twist and swirl together, leaving a murky blue in its wake. Dean huffs out a breath in his ears, and for a second, Castiel expects to feel the warmth of it against his skin, the light touch of fingertips to Castiel’s hips. Slipping the last fork into the dish holder, Castiel pulls the plug to the dirty water. He reaches for a drying rag, a ratty old thing that Sam got Dean two Christmas’ ago, and runs it quickly between his palms.

 

_“Body was tagged, bagged and sent to Campbell County Hospital. A mister Cas-Casteel, Casteel Novak, Christ, spelled Charlie, Alpha, Sierra, Tango, India, Echo, and Lima. He’s a Pediatrics surgeon who apparently moonlights as a mortician. Casteel was assigned to determine TOD and cause of death. Though I can probably guess decapitation has something to do with it. He is also the one to identify the victim’s identity-”_

 

An arm wraps around Castiel’s waist, pinning him against the sink edge and he freezes. Then, there’s an ear bud ejecting itself from his ear, and Castiel’s skin is kissed with a five o’clock shadow he’d recognize anywhere.

 

“Shh,” Dean says, his voice whispers across Castiel’s cheek. “It’s me, sorry.”

 

“Dean,” Castiel replies. His name coming out in a long breath as he tries to keep his heart from jumping into his throat. “How many times have I told you not to do that?”

 

Dean chuckles and presses himself against Castiel, so they’re flushed from chest to hip. “Please tell me you’re listening to Zeppelin and not one my old cases again.”

 

As if cued, the Walkman clicks off, signaling the end of side A. Castiel pulls the other ear bud out, lets it drop, and turns to face Dean. “It’s Zeppelin.”

 

Dean meets his eyes, and Castiel can see the exhaustion that hides behind the small sparkle of mischief. “Always been a terrible liar, Cas,” he says.

 

Dean runs a hand through Castiel’s hair, playing with the small strands at the nape of his neck, and frowns.

 

“Have you slept at all?” Dean asks. Bringing a hand up to Castiel’s face, tracing a rough finger by the corner of his eye. Dean’s eyes flicker to his lips, and Castiel places his hand over Deans’.

 

Castiel shakes his head. “I haven’t been home long.”

 

Dean leans in, Castiel meeting him half way, and the first brush of dry lips against his own has Castiel’s breath caught in his throat.

 

“I missed you,” Dean says. Castiel answers by gripping Dean’s belt and pulling him closer. They’ve been away from each other for four days, and it left a hollow gap in Castiel’s chest.

 

Dean pushes in, clouds Castiel’s senses with the smell of Irish springs and old coffee and backs them up until Castiel’s ass hits the lip of the sink. He can feel the excess water left over from the dishes soaking into his khaki pants. His new, very expensive, easily stained, Neiman Marcus khaki pants. Goddammit, he is gay after all. But, he doesn’t have it in him to care. No, not when Dean is licking hot and wet into his mouth.

 

Castiel pulls away from Dean’s mouth when he feels a sharp dig in the side of his hip, and remembers the Walkman. He slips his hand from Dean’s hair and blindly sweeps at the offending pressure. Dean moves down to Castiel’s throat, sucking hard at his pulse point.

 

“Dean,” Castiel says, and it comes out cracked, and hoarse, even to his own ears. The Walkman digs in a little deeper into Castiel’s side when Dean groans and presses his hips in tighter. Castiel tries again. “Dean, the Walkman.”

 

Lifting his head, Dean huffs hot breath onto Castiel’s neck, cooling the patches of saliva he kissed there and leans his forehead against Castiel’s chin.

 

“What?” he replies, trying to shake the thick cloud of arousal. Castiel feels a sharp ping of need rush through him at the sound of his husband’s voice. Husky and amber, like the whiskey Dean drinks most evenings. It burns hot down his throat and warms his chest, and sends blood to his cock.

 

Castiel pitches himself forward, off the sink edge, and pulls the Walkman off his belt loop. He has time to toss it on the stove before Dean’s got his mouth on his again.

 

It’s Castiel who licks at edge of Dean’s lower lip, asking for entrance, a hot sweep of tongue that has him hungry for the taste of Dean’s mouth. And, it’s Castiel who walks them back toward the pantry closet. Fumbling over each other’s feet, giggling into each other’s mouth when their noses bump. And, it’s Castiel who slots a thigh between Dean’s legs and grabs his ass with both hands.

 

But, it’s Dean who moans Castiel’s name into his mouth like a confession. And, it’s Dean who tosses his head back so hard that it shakes the ugly clock his sister got them as a wedding gift. It’s Dean who grinds forward, hands pulling at Castiel’s dress shirt, and bites the lobe of Castiel’s ear that sends fire flaring from his belly down to his cock. He moans and presses his erection into Dean’s hip, the fabric of his pants pulling tight against the strain.

 

“Christ,” Dean says, slipping a hand into the back of Castiel’s pants. Dean’s nails dig into his ass, the sharp sting stealing the breath right out of Castiel’s lungs. It pulls a grunt from Castiel’s lips, something between primal and need, and he presses his mouth hard against Dean’s, dragging his lower lip through his teeth. His own hands rake Dean’s cotton shirt up, and he scratches at the hair on Dean’s lower belly.

This is something Castiel doesn’t think he’ll ever get used too. It’s sheer need that rushes through him like a freight train, knocks the breath from his lungs, and claws its way in. He can’t seem to get Dean close enough, and he wants.

 

He wants, and he wants, and he wants.

 

The desire to crawl inside of Dean, to let Dean fuck him until he can’t walk, leaves him dizzy. He grips Dean’s hips, and he’s sure the bruising evidence will be there tomorrow, but right now, Dean’s the only thing grounding him to earth.

 

“Cas,” Dean says. It’s a whisper of noise, but Castiel can hear the edge to it. Dean removes one hand from his ass and grabs Castiel’s wrist. He pulls their hands down until they are cupping Dean’s clothed cock and presses against it. A strangled moan starts from Dean’s stomach and ends in Castiel’s mouth as he strokes Dean through his denim. “God, like that, yeah.”

 

Castiel breathes against Dean’s neck, laces his free fingers into the back of Dean’s hair, pulling tightly. The motion exposes the tendons in Dean’s throat, and Castiel follows the thick band with the broad portion of his tongue. Dean tastes salty, like sweat and Castiel feels Deans moan vibrate past his tongue and into Castiel’s hair. Dean’s stubble scrapes lightly against Castiel’s lips, the sensation causes a shiver down his spine.

 

“Suck me,” Dean says, grunting the words, and pushing both hands on Castiel’s shoulders. “Please, Cas.”

 

Castiel knows his knees are already sore from standing in back to back surgeries, and he probably shouldn’t kneel on the laminated kitchen floor. But, then Dean’s fumbling with his own pants, desperation making his fingers thick and clumsy, and Castiel doesn’t have it in him to say no.

 

His joints pop as he gingerly makes his way down, mouthing at the little skin that’s peeping out from Dean’s rucked up shirt.

 

Castiel grips the ends of Dean’s tee shirt and pushes at it more forcefully. He meets Dean’s eye, and blood rushes south with the spark of excitement that flashes across Dean’s features when Castiel says. “Off.”

 

Sometimes Dean likes to be the one taking orders.

 

“Fuck,” Dean says. Almost like a prayer as his hips move forward. “God. Fuck yeah.”

 

Flicking open Dean’s jean button, Castiel pulls down his pants and boxers in one go. Dean was hard, swollen and purple at the tip of his cock, but a little thinner then Castiel. He nuzzles in next to Dean’s cock. The soft hairs tickling his nose, and the scent of Dean filled his senses. His hands pulling at the backs of Dean’s thighs, and Dean’s fingers slip into Castiel’s hair, pulling tightly. It sends a new wave of arousal over him.

 

“Cas,” Dean says. It’s a broken sound that crawls its way up from Dean’s abdomen.

 

Castiel chuckles lightly, strokes Dean’s cock once, twisting around the head and licks the bead of come from the tip.

 

Dean huffs out a breath, and it sounds suspiciously like _tease_.

 

Taking Dean into his mouth entirely, Castiel’s moan gets tangled up in Deans’. The bitter flavor of Dean’s cock makes Castiel’s mouth water, and the weight of it against his tongue almost makes him gag.

He’s not as skilled at this as Dean is. But, what he lacks in knowledge he makes up in enthusiasm. At least that’s what his mother always told him.

 

Hollowing out his cheeks, he dips his head forward and locks his hands on Dean’s hips to hold him in place.

 

“Shit,” Dean says, the word slurring. His hands tighten in Castiel’s hair, and he can’t help the moan it pulls from him. “Oh fuck, Cas, yeah, just like that.”

 

Castiel want’s to see him. Want’s to watch him come apart from his mouth, but when his eyes flicker upward, he freezes.

 

He takes in Dean’s blown pupils and flushed cheeks, all cut up with the red flush of arousal, and there’s a bead of sweat making its way down the side of his forehead. His hair is fucked beyond repair, sticking up in tufts, messy from Castiel running his hands through it. His heart squeezes, splintering out and warming him and he’s so in love with Dean it fucking hurts.

 

He should feel foolish with Dean’s cock sitting in his mouth, saliva pushing out around the sides, Dean’s hands still in his hair. He should feel embarrassed at how greedy he probably looks to have Dean in his mouth, but he isn’t.

 

There was a time when Castiel was afraid to tell Dean how he feels. A time when he never thought he would get the chance. So now, he doesn’t ever want to miss an opportunity. Dean hisses when Castiel pulls off his cock, but his eyes are steadfast on Castiel’s own, trying to figure out what’s wrong.

 

“I love you,” Castiel says, his voice sounds strangled, caught in the back of throat. Tears prick the backs of his eyes, threatening to spill, and there’s a rush of panic that floods through him. Castiel tries to swallow past it.

 

Dean’s eyes go soft, and it shouldn’t surprise Castiel when Dean cups his face with one hand, but it does. He leans into the warmth of Dean’s calloused palm, and he didn’t even realize he was crying until Dean swiped at his eyes.

 

From the floor, Castiel can’t see much more than the shadow of eyelashes across Dean’s cheeks. But, he knows that under that shadow, lays a dusting of freckles from long days spent in the hot Lawrence sun. And, just above Dean’s right eyebrow is a small scar, gifted by Sam’s elbow when he was 12 and Sam was 8.

 

Castiel has spent many nights mouthing over Dean’s skin, mapping the scars and hard muscles of his body with his tongue, teeth, mouth.

 

Learning him, worshiping him.

 

Castiel noses Dean’s groin, keeping his eyes locked with his husbands’, and Dean thumbs his cheek. “You’re beautiful,” Castiel says. “I love you.”


End file.
